


Loved

by CrowsandCooks



Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: ..... - Freeform, Alternate Universe, BAMF You, Character Death, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, M/M, Mama Vaas, Memorials, Offerings, POV Second Person, Papa Jason, Protective Parents, be more careful You, cause i can, fluff!, mentions of torture, nothing too graphic, physical affection, shrine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7752355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowsandCooks/pseuds/CrowsandCooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are their child. </p>
<p>You are so loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loved

**Author's Note:**

> This was in my vault.

 

You are ten and awake. You sit up. The room is cold but your blankets of furs keeps you warm. The sound of gunshots still echo in the darkness and you wait.

 

You wait and you think. You think of Rapunzel. You think of Snow White. You think of Cinderella and Rose Red. You wonder why these girls did not fight. Why they accepted their fates so easy and did nothing to change it. They were rewarded for the patience yes but why did they wait?

 

“It’s a white people thing” your mother sneered, he flicked through the book with disgust before tossing it in the fire. You’re not particularly angry because it was a terrible book but you hit him out of habit. He pouted and rubbed his arm. He made a gesture, “Become a doormat and wait until your prince charming come save you”.

 

Your father scowled because he was very much white but he didn’t disagree with the statement. “How about you read her Rakyat fairy tales?” He said. Your mother looked at him and grinned. It's one of those grins that made the pirates flinch.

 

“This is why I love you” he declared before kissing him. It was a peck which was good. Your parents had a nasty habit of forgetting you exist when they start to kiss.

 

The door creaks open and light shines in,  you look to see your father. He smiles and closes the door. “Are you okay?” He asks in the darkness. The bed creaks under his weight and he gathers you in his arms, blankets and all. You nod. “Did the gun fire wake you?” He asks again, you nod again. “Were you scared?” he asks. You shake your head.

 

You struggle under the blanket and pull out your gift from your fourth birthday. You show him the Silver Dragon, still in its sheath.

 

He laughs, “Always prepared, huh?” You smile in response. You watch the door but it doesn't open again. You can hear single shots, different from the rapid fires that sang earlier.

 

“Where's Mama?”

 

You know your mother isn't hurt. Your father wouldn't be here if he was. Your father would be by his side and they would send Carlos to bring you to them. They get like that, your parents, if one was hurt, the other would stay by the injured one’s side.

 

“Some bad men were trying to take something that didn't belong to them” your father explains. “So Mama is making sure they don't try again”

 

But they will. You know they will and your father does too.

 

You wonder what the thing is. It must be very important to them.

 

“Do you want to hear a story?” Your father offers, pulling you from your memories and back to reality. You nod. He starts,

 

“Once upon a time, there was a child born from a queen and her warrior...”

 

xxx

 

Your mother opens the door. It wakes you but you're not awake. You are in a weird plane of awareness drenched in grogginess and sleep. You are still in your father's arms, fur and all.

 

Your mother is drowning in sunlight as he wipes the blood off his face. He grins at the sight of the two of you.

 

“You finished?” Your father asks, you feel the yawn in his chest.

 

“Yeah” he says in a soft voice. Your mother is hardly ever soft. He will speak low before he roars fury and shitstorms (as your father likes to say) but he does not speak soft. There is nothing subtle or soft about your mother, neither your father when you think about it. But your mother, right now, looks at the two of you with such softness. It fills you with warmth and content. You open your arms to him and he takes you up.

 

“My precious warrior” he whispers. You wrap your arms around his neck but you never let go of your knife. You still feeling drowsy. “Did any of them make it?”

 

“No,” your father replies. “None of his men did” You feel the gentle touch of his hands in your hair. “I’d skin them alive if they even stepped on the porch”  

 

“Like the last time” your mother comments.

 

Your father murmurs a response but sleep grabs you back into its arms.

 

xxx

 

The men serve your mother and by some extension, your father.  Your father is a consort and your mother is a king. That is the way it is explained to you. The statement makes your mother laugh and even your father chuckles.

 

Your mother has many men but few approach you. Few play with you and few teach you.

 

You can understand why. Your mother is the mad king. You've seen him smile as he flicks nails off the fingers of his own men. He has shown you how to in a cheerful voice ignoring the screams of the held down man.

 

The man may have deserved it. He may have not.

 

Your father is different. He doesn't torture or mock. He doesn't interact with the men much except for the few that play with you.

 

Carlos is different. Carlos is everyone's favourite and your mother's right hand man. He is the one who brings you candy and plays video games with you when your parents have gone “hunting”.  

 

You don't know why they say it with air quotes, but they do. You wonder if they’re actually hunting or doing something else.

 

xxx

 

Every black moon, they dress you up. They paint your skin bright colours with green, blue red and gray, lines and dots on your face. Beads that shine bright around your neck and bright multicolour materials made of cotton, leather and silk wrapped around your waist and shoulders. Your parents dress up too.

 

“Fucking hate this” your mother mutters, fiddling with the cloth around his waist. “Every fucking year...to a bitch I fucking hate”  The dots and lines on his face are bright blue and white. Your father’s clothes are plain in comparison. The markings on his face are green and black. He helps your mother and whispers soothing words against your mother's cheeks and lips.

 

Your mother sighs and takes up a bag.

 

There is a lake far from your home. There are stories that the island began from that lake and it is revered. It is a long walk but your mother insists that you all do. It is a pilgrimage of sorts. By time you reach it is night and the black moon is high.

 

The others come with you but they do not go to the lake with you. They always stop a couple hundred yards and you continue without them.

 

There is a tree at the lake, it is large and the tallest of all the trees that surround the lake. Underneath it's roots, there is a small area, tall enough for your parents to stand under without bending. There is a shrine there. It is made of stone and the words of Rakyat are carved and painted red. On the topmost step in the center of the shrine is a skull sitting in a crown of thorns made from the metal of melted blades. Hanging above the shrine are spears and daggers from the roots of the trees.

 

Your mother hands you the bag and you open it. Inside are skulls, burnt black. You take out the skulls and your mother takes up the skull from out the crown. He cleans it until it shines like the moon. Your father lights the twelve candles and you put all twelve skulls on each step except the bottom one.

 

The shrine looks both beautiful and eerie. Your father told you that it was a grave but your mother corrects him.

 

It is a shrine for a warrior. It is a shrine for a  goddess. It is a shrine for the one who birthed you at the cost of her life.

 

You pray with your mother. Your father does not join but he pays his respects no matter how grudging.

 

“She was born on a night like this” your mother tells you after. You're sitting at the fire, he is smoking and your father turns the meat. A person is remembered on the day they came into the earth, not the day they left it.

 

You wonder when your mother came to the earth. If it was during a blue moon or when the moon consumed the sun. Your mother doesn't remember and your father, though he no longer celebrates it, measures his own entrance by date. He was born during a time when the sun was high, nothing special.

 

You eat, the meat is spicy on your tongue and your parents drink and smoke. Your mother does not cry for the sister he lost and neither does your father. The one who birthed you must have been cruel, you think, but amazing enough for people to create a shrine to pay respect to her.

 

Even your mother, who in his unrivaled pettiness, offers her the skulls of the warriors that attacked the compound last week.

 

xxx

 

Eventually, you find out what it was. That thing that was so precious that these warriors were dying to grasp.

 

It's you.

 

You are thirteen and you are not amused.

 

Their leader is a man. He introduces himself as Dennis. He calls you their ruler.The one who birthed you was a queen. He gets on his knees and grovels to your existence.

 

It doesn't feel like freedom.

 

It feels as if a chain is wrapped around your neck.

 

The temple is old and large. But you can tell is cared for. The carvings look similar to the ones on the shrine. You feel the eyes of those below on you. There are many.

 

The pressure of their expectations weigh against you. The chains are tightening.

 

Your parents aren't going to be happy but that doesn't matter. You're angry. You're so angry. You wonder why no one told you. How hard was it to say “ **H** **ey, your birth mother was a rebel queen and her people are trying to take you from us** ”? You wonder how deep this story is that a simple sentence would not suffice.

 

He takes your silent fuming for acceptance. He gets up and starts to tell you his plans for your future. The chain is choking now.

 

You want your mother. You want your father. You want Carlos or the others.

 

You don't want this.

 

You call him to you. He hesitates but he comes.

 

“These people are mine?” You ask. He nods. But you don't feel this is true.

 

They are looking at you but you can tell, they don't _see you._

 

_“No"_ you tell him. “ _Take me home_ ”  you demand.

 

He refuses. He splutters excuses, he tells the men to take you. “You're just confused.” He says. They reach for you. “You just need time to understand” he continues.

 

“I said no” you reply in a calm tone. You snatch the Silver Dragon out of the sheath in your shirt. You don't slash at his throat, that won't do the job. Your father has taught you better.

 

You stab him in the side of his neck and pull forward. It's hard to but killing a boar is harder. It thrashes and its neck is thicker. Dennis’s neck is thin, in comparison, and he does not thrash.

 

The Rakyat don't try to save him. Maybe they're in shock, shock that thing, they were trying so hard to get, didn't want to be taken. Or maybe they're truly fanatical in your existence and accept his death.

 

It makes you wonder what kind of person your birth mother  was.

 

There is an explosion and a laughter of madness and rage.

 

Your parents are here.

 

xxx

 

Your father spends the next three hours lecturing you. You don't understand why (you do because you snuck out when you shouldn't have but you're not going to admit it out loud unless you have to) but he does and he's very passionate.

 

Your mother watches, his fury sated from ripping off the flesh of a man's abdomen and shoving live rats in it.  He nods on occasion when your father looks at him.

 

The few Rakyat that weren't slaughtered deserted the temple and if they had any sense, you hope, the idea of you ruling them.

 

“But, other than the fact that you are so grounded, I'm glad you're safe” he says, pulling you into a hug. Your mother smiles and kisses you on your head.

 

They tuck you in bed despite your protests and wrap your blankets of furs around you. They sit in the ground by the side of your bed, side by side. Your mother leaning against your father with held hands between them.  They won't leave for now. You know this. You know them.

 

They need to remind themselves that you're here, that you're safe and whole.

 

You are so loved.

 

The thought makes you settle deeper into your bed.

 

xxx

 

Your father's favourite story is Alice in Wonderland. He still reads it to you when you ask him to.

 

You like it too because you think Alice is rather sensible for a child so foolish. Because Alice knew what many did not, Alice knew where she belonged and where she did not. She did not belong in Wonderland.

 

And just like her, you know where you belong. You did not belong on a throne made of bones and stone to be put up like a glass doll and worshiped.

 

You belonged right where you were, beside your parents who love you.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, stay with me. I had this idea that if Jason came back with a baby and they sorted their shit out. Vaas would be the one to call himself mother, you know jokingly because it seemed like a good idea at the time. (When you’re high everything is a good idea)
> 
> None of the pirates repeat it of course.
> 
> So he’s trying to get this nineteen month old to say ‘mama’ and shit. Jason just lets him because Vaas interacting with their (yes, their) kid is fucking adorable. 
> 
> This continues until the child actually calls him ‘Mama’ and Vaas in shock is like ‘wtf did you just call me?’
> 
> And everyone, except Jason, freezes. The pirates are, hiding behind a calm Jason, wondering if they should just run.
> 
> The baby repeats it all happy and shit, “Mama”
> 
> And Vaas turns around with the biggest grin on his face, “did you fucking hear that? They called me ‘Mama’! That’s it. It’s official. This kid is mine!”
> 
> At the end of it all, Jason is trying to get the baby to say ‘Papa’ so he can re-establish joint-ownership.


End file.
